


His Lemonade Burned Like Rubbing Alcohol

by kianisabitch



Series: attempting to black out the marvel bingo [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Daddy Issues, Dark, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Emotional Manipulation, Hopeful Ending, Hurt Peter Parker, Marvel Bingo 2019, Non-Consensual Touching, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter misses Tony, Quentin Beck is a really bad man, Rape, Really dark, Sexual Assault, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, read the tags !!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 07:32:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kianisabitch/pseuds/kianisabitch
Summary: Suddenly, Peter felt like his skin was on fire and icy all at once. He felt pin pricks under his skin as Beck traced a single finger from Peter’s forehead, down the slope of his face and across the boy’s lips. Using the rough tips of his fingers, the man forced Peter to open his mouth. The fingers felt like sandpaper and chalk dust against his tongue and drool dripped down his chin and down onto his lap.ORAfter Peter gives Quentin the EDITH glasses, the man wants to steal one last thing from Tony Stark. He gets Peter drunk and rapes the boy, stealing his virginity.(Fill for Canon Divergence Square on Marvel Bingo)





	His Lemonade Burned Like Rubbing Alcohol

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags and take care of yourself. This fic graphically describes rape and if that triggers you AT all, please click off.

Quentin Beck certainly felt like the best thing that had happened to Peter since, well since Tony had passed and left a giant gaping void of parental loss in his heart. It felt good to have an older man in his life who really seemed to care about him and wanted to celebrate and Peter found himself basking in the warm feelings of job well done as the two ‘celebrated’ together. 

The entire weight of his small body was leaning forward onto the grimy counter of the bar. His elbows were bent and they had been pressed into the counter so long that his skin had become numb. In his left hand the boy was flipping the dirty plastic straw back and forth, watching the lemonade fall and splatter onto the counter in little puddles of lukewarm yellow liquid. 

Next to him,  Quentin sat confidently in his chair. His back was straight, his hair was pushed back and his entire form was exuding confidence. Ever since Peter had given the man the EDITH glasses, nearly an hour back by that point, the two had been rambling on and on about old stories and in general, life’s musings. It was nice to talk to the man and Peter felt falling into the comfort of the conversation like he was talking to Mr. Stark all those years ago. It made him feel happy and loved and well received and Peter basked in the all around positive feelings. 

The man  was telling some long winded story, something about a battle in a dimension Peter barely understood existed. Every few minutes the man would flick a hand through his short hair or scratch at his beard and Peter would trace the movement with his eyes; until all he could see was the ghost of Mr. Stark’s own face and hair and beard over laid on Beck’s own features and Peter wanted to scream because he missed Mr. Stark so damn much. 

But at least the voice sounded different and Peter tried to focus only on that and stay in the reality that Tony Stark and Quentin Beck were not the same people. The man had been telling his story to the boy for almost twenty minutes by that point and Peter found himself leaning into the counter, letting his eyes flicker shut in an attempt of forgetting Tony’s features and basking in the warmth of the way Beck’s laughter sounded like sunshine washing over his skin and trying to forget that he was missing his mentor more than ever. 

Quentin was pushing another glass of lemonade over to the boy, it had mysteriously appeared out of nowhere, and Peter cracked his eyes back open. Smiling up at the man, he dropped the straw he had previously been playing with into the new glass. When he drank he was expecting the sweet, acidic taste of his previous beverage, but instead the lemonade tasted weird. It tasted like he was drinking rubbing alcohol and it burned the back of his throat and it made him sputter and choke. 

He wanted to send it back and get another one, because there was no way this was meant to be for him, but Beck wouldn’t let him. He wrapped one ice cold hand around Peter’s own hand and the glass, staring straight at the boy as he explained that the bartender must have forgotten the sugar part of his lemonade. Peter was too young and naive to understand how stupid the man sounded and he trusted Mysterio, he really did. So under Beck’s watchful eye, he tipped back the rest of the glass, forgoing the straw entirely, and then he drank the two more glasses the man pushed his way afterwards like they were the only things that mattered in this entire world. 

By the time he had finished the third glass, Peter’s head started to feel fuzzy. He felt like the entire room was spinning, like he was stuck in a washing machine or on an out of control carnival ride. The darkness of the room and the shadows looming were all bending and contorting and he was terrified of the bright light streaming in from the pinpricks of street lights on the winding streets outside the window. 

Suddenly, Peter felt like his skin was on fire and icy all at once. He felt pin pricks under his skin as Beck traced a single finger from Peter’s forehead, down the slope of his face and across the boy’s lips. Using the rough tips of his fingers, the man forced Peter to open his mouth. The fingers felt like sandpaper and chalk dust against his tongue and drool dripped down his chin and down onto his lap. 

Beck was staring at him like a predator and his blue eyes swam like tiny rivers in his vision. Peter wasn’t sure whether the man crudely winking at him or if the dizziness in his mind was causing him to lose entire chunks of time like there were puzzle pieces falling out of the picture in his brain. Quentin was licking his lips as drool spilled from the corners of Peter's mouth and he was terrified of the expression on his face and the way he looked like he wanted to eat the boy right up: liking and sucking at the young skin like he was an ice cream cone melting at his touch. 

Then Beck was leaning forward and within a second, as if he had blinked again and missed another chunk of reality, the man was touching him. And Peter fucking felt like he was melting into the older man’s skin. But he didn’t feel it in a good way. No, he felt it in a very bad way. He felt like he was melting into barbed wire and Beck’s lips on his made him want to scream and cry and vomit all at once. He wanted to run away and hide from this man who was stealing his first kiss like it was candy. Minutes ago, the boy had been gushing about his crush on MJ and now they man he had confided had manipulated the trust and knowledge of Peter’s innocence. He had forced the boy into a moment where he could not run or hide or protect himself, because he was vulnerable and small ant the alcohol was confusing his powers to the point where they were sluggish or flat out didn’t work and he was young. So fucking young. And Peter couldn’t help but think that if he wasn’t so young and helpless and small and vulnerable, that this wouldn’t be happening to him at all. 

Peter tried to scream out, but his body wasn’t listening to his mind he only managed to get out a small whine. It sounded like a wounded kitten mewling, but he knew it had caught the bartender's attention when the man’s eyes met his. At first he was relieved, but then Peter’s head swam with confusion when the man smirked at him and continued cleaning like there wasn’t a teenager being assaulted in front of him. And then Beck was chuckling at him, as if the thought of Peter trying to cry out for help was the most preposterous thought in the entire world. 

Peter tried to fight back once more, but it wasn’t working. It felt like there was a disconnect between his brain and his limbs and he felt like a sack of potatoes. He was sitting there helplessly as Beck shoved his tongue down his throat and took everything from him with no regrets or sense of consequence. 

One of the older man’s hands were in his hair, pulling and yanking until the boy complied, and the other was around his throat. The hand was huge and pulsing around his neck and the more Peter tried to fight and the more small whines that left the boy’s mouth, the harder the man would squeeze on his neck. His mind and vision were becoming even more fuzzy with the lack of air and Peter wished that he could blink and he would be in the permanent darkness and everything would just be over. And maybe, just maybe, he could see Tony again and everything would be ok because Tony would never fucking do this to him. 

  
  


Every time Beck pulled away from Peter’s lips for air, he touched their foreheads together- forcing Peter to either stare into his assaulters eyes or be plunged into the terrifying darkness. He wasn’t sure which was worse, because he really wasn’t ready to give up fighting and fucking die, but suddenly the choice was being ripped out of his hands and Peter was being dragged towards the bathroom by his hair and he kept his hair open in an attempt to frantically look for an out from this situation. 

His scalp was ripping and burning and Peter wanted to scream, but his mouth wasn’t working and he felt like his limbs were being ripped out of their sockets as he was shoved into the dimly lit bathroom. The metal clanged and rattled as the door slammed shut and Peter felt the sound deep in his brain and his heart and every limb in his entire body. 

The older man shoved Peter into the wall of the small room and Peter’s head connected with a loud crack. However, he had little time to react before Beck was looming over him like he was a fucking super villain; and for the first time Peter felt like he was seeing Quentin in his natural habit of being a fucking super villain. 

The man’s calloused fingers fiddled with the zipper on Peter’s jeans. Peter was finally hysterically crying and when his voice started to work once more he was begging the man to leave him alone and go away and leave Peter be. 

Quentin started speaking for the first time and when Peter heard his voice he feared that he would keel over and start vomiting all over the floor of the bathroom. 

“You reek of daddy issues, Peter.” The boy shivered at the sound of the zipper going down and the feeling of his pants being yanked down to his knees. “I can see why Stark liked you so much. Sweet little thing, all young and pretty lips and innocent eyes.” Quentin's entire large hand wrapped around Peter’s genitals and it felt like sandpaper- rough and raw and grating against his skin. 

Peter was whining now and he started hitting his head backwards against the wall. “I can’t believe he didn’t fuck your sweet virgin ass while he was alive,” Quentin chuckled manically at his comment. “But I can fix that for you easily. It’s not exactly the perfect provisions, I like to fuck the young one’s in their own beds- something about cum and blood on cartoon sheets reall gets me off; but I can make due.” He snickered at the boy. “Daddy is going to take good care of you, Peter. Way better care than Stark ever did, that’s for sure. ” 

Peter shivered at the word ‘daddy’ and he felt like he was free falling off of a cliff. He wasn’t sure if it hurt more to be hit in the face with Mr. Stark’s death or the fact that this man was going to fuck him and had wanted Mr. Stark, his father figure and an older man who had nothing but platonic fatherly love for Peter, to fuck him to. 

The boy moved to run out of the bathroom as Quentin’s eyes flicked down to unzip his own pants. But he barely made it one step before Quentin was laughing once more and Peter’s small body was being slammed into the wall, one knee between his legs and Beck’s other forearm hard against his upper back. 

“I don’t think so, sweetheart.” Quentin whispered into his ear. 

And then there were hands like ice on his ass, pulling him open and spit dripped down the curve of his ass. But it was barely enough and Peter’s entire body felt like it was being ripped apart as Quentin entered him. 

The man slammed into him over and over and over again. And with every snap of his hips the man was whispering words in his ear that made him feel like he was breaking into a million tiny pieces. 

“You’re the reason Tony is dead.”

Slam. 

“You’re only job in love is to be fucked by me.”

Slam. 

“Tony probably hates that he could never do this to you.”

Slam.

“Whore.”

Slam.

“Worthless.”

Slam.

“Tony is dead because you failed.”

Slam.

“Tony is dead because you failed.”

Slam.

“Tony is dead because you failed.”

Slam.

“Tony is dead because you failed.”

Slam.

And then it appeared as if Quentin had become so consumed in destroying Peter, that he had forgotten how his words worked all together. And the only sounds in the bathroom were skin slapping against skin and Peter’s crying and whining and begging to be left alone. 

A sticky substance sprayed into him and Peter bit down on his lip hard, screaming at the feeling of being filled and torn and violated. And then there was blood on his split bottom lip and there was blood trickling down his ass and landing with tiny drips on the floor of the bathroom. 

The boy felt his knees buckle, and suddenly he was crumpling into a ball floor on the dirty floor of the bathroom. He let out a tiny sigh of relief when he felt the cool tiles against his burning ass. But then he was crying again when he felt blood and semen on his skin and his body wasn’t practically working for him, but he somehow managed to scoot his shaking form about half a foot away from Quentin’s heavy boots. 

For a split, naive, second Peter thought that he may be able to stand on shaky legs and run out of the bathroom and through the bar and onto the dark street. But he was mistaken because Quentin clearly wasn’t ready to let the terrified, broken boy go just yet. 

He was hyperventilating, every inch of his body screaming out for air, and tears tripped down the slope of his face and onto his bare legs. The sight of his naked lower body made him sob even harder and clearly having enough the older man stomped his heavy shoes on the ground once causing Peter’s small body to contort in fear and pain and confusion. And now the boy was cowering away from Quentin as the man leaned down to stare at him like he was the most interesting thing in the entire world. 

His entire body flinched as the older man ran a hand through Peter’s sweat, matted hair. The touch was deceptively sweet at first, but within a second he was grabbing the boy and pulling Peter’s head so far back, until he was staring straight into the man’s eyes. 

“You don’t have Tony here to save you, kid.” The man sneered at him like he was dirt on the bottom of his shoe. “And he’s never coming back to save you.” 

Peter scream ripped through the stale as the man’s large boot stepped on his crotch, crushing the boy’s sensitive skin under the sole of his shoe by placing his entire bodies weight into torturing the tiny, crying boy. His vision was swimming with dots and Peter was terrified that he was going to pass out from the contact and that Quentin would be able to do anything with his unconscious form. 

But luckily the man only pressed down for a fraction of a second more, before stepping off of Peter. However, the hand was still in his hair and Peter felt trapped, like he was suffocating and falling and drowning all at once. 

“You will never be anything but a reminder of Tony Stark’s disappointment. And every single day I want you to think about the feeling of me in your ass, fucking you until you break. Do you hear me, kid?”

He sneered down at the boy, his eyes glinting with pain and fury and some sort of sadistic redemption. 

A giant glob of spit landed on Peter’s face condescendingly- making Peter feel less than a superhero, than a human, than alive. If Tony was here and the feelings of grief and pain and anguish flooded his system and he suddenly was mourning his mentor as much as his virginity and of his sanity. 

Peter traced his hand over a pool of blood and semen on the floor, bringing his stained fingers up to his eye level and really taking in the appearance of two intensely different colors mixing into a soft pink. It looked like oil paint, the hue rosy and delicate and that made Peter want to scream and cry or curl up into a ball and never look at the light of day again. 

He caught a single tear on the corner of his stained fingers and he watched the paint like substance dilute and become watery, until there were more tears and the substance no longer could stay contained on the surface of his skin. And then the blood and the semen and the tears were dripping onto his exposed crotch and Peter scrunched his eyes up in pain, no longer wanting to see the dainty color. 

He could hear Quentin moving around above him and he kept his body tightly curled up in a small ball, trying to contain the shivering and shaking of his body. At every drag of the man’s boots, he feared that the older man was going to lean over and start hurting him once more. Peter was terrified that if that happened, he would actually break for good and he tried to keep himself small and unobtrusive. He tried so hard to be invisible, holding his breath when he heard the metallic sound of a zipper and boots walking and finally, the heaviness of a door opening and closing. 

His head was still spinning when he cracked open his eyes to check if the terrible man was truly gone. He wasn’t prepared for even the dim amount of light, however and acid splashed against the back of his throat violently. And then, he was vomiting all over his shirt and his naked body lower body and onto the floor and then it was mixing with the little pool of blood and semen and tears. 

Peter’s eyes snapped shut once more. He knew that he should be making every effort to make his body into standing up and cleaning himself even a little and then running far away and then taking seventeen burning hot showers in a row, and maybe telling one of his teachers what had happened to him- or maybe, he shivered at the thought, Nick Fury. 

But the thoughts of telling anyone made his entire body shake with panic and he already felt too far gone and he was spiraling so hard and all he wanted was Mr. Stark to come save him. 

Tony would know what to do, he always knew what to do. He would clean the boy up and make him hot chocolate and make him feel better. Peter wanted to feel better. He needed to feel better. 

He remembers a time before all of this crap in his life. A time when some of his biggest worries were bullies and how Mr. Stark had reacted when he had found out about Flash’s taunting. He had feared the man would react violently, ranting and raving at Flash and his teachers and the school and everyone within sigh. But instead, he had been tender and loving and the man had helped him report Flash to a teacher without making a big deal. He had made Peter double chocolate pancakes and hot chocolate for breakfast and let him stay all day in the labs, tinkering with an Iron Man gauntlet as they watched Star Wars together and stuffed themselves on twizzlers and doritos. 

Peter wanted that Mr. Stark to be here in this moment. He wanted the Mr. Stark that would wrap him up in a warm blanket and talk him through his options and give him hugs and feed gin ridiculous amounts of junk food. He wanted Mr. Stark who would remind Peter about how much he was loved and play with his hair and remind the boy that he was perfect and amazing and loved in so many ways. 

But that Mr. Stark wasn’t there- no Mr. Stark was there- and Peter slumped against the wall of the bathroom. His head was pounding and the smell of vomit burned the inside of his nostrils and his skin felt like it was on fire and he was breaking, truly a hundred and ten percent breaking. 

He was unsure of what to do next, of how to deal with a situation that felt so direly out of control and he just wanted the man he trusted and loved so dearly to come back from the dead and protect him. But that clearly wasn’t happening and for the moment the boy fumbled to lift his lower half off of the tile floor. His legs felt like jello, but he somehow managed to slide his jeans and boxers back onto his lower half with gritted teeth and his eyes closed. 

Once the pants were back on, he slowly stood on shaking legs and he braced himself for the feeling of nausea before he slowly opened his eyes. When his eyes were opened, the sight of himself in the mirror made Peter want to faint. 

His skin was so pale and clammy, he looked like a ghost and skeleton had a love child. His usually fluffy hair was messy and matted to his forehead with sweat and his dark eyes were red rimmed, the skin underneath them was puffy and swollen and a startling dark purple bruise had already started to form under the left one. His shirt and pants were rumpled and when he twisted his body a fraction to the side, he could see blood and semen staining the back of his pants and lower shirt. 

He wanted to scream and vomit and give up right then and there, but when he started at himself in the mirror once more he knew that he couldn’t give up. He needed to be strong not only for himself, but also for Mr. Stark. 

Peter twisted the faucet open, cringing at the sound of water hitting the sink. He cupped his hands and filled them with warm water, not caring as the water sloshed and spilled down his front and onto his pants. He splashed the water onto his face, feeling a tiny bit more clean before he started at himself straight in the mirror. 

“I miss you, Mr. Stark” He whispered at himself, his voice cracking and tears threatening to spill down his face and into the sink. “But I promise that I’m going to be strong.” Peter smiled and looked out of place on his battered, tear stained face. “I’m going to be just like you, Mr. Stark.”

And with that, Peter splashed one more handful of water onto his face before spinning around and slowly exiting the small bathroom. He kept his down, ignoring the now greatly diminished patrons of the bar, as he made his way to the dark street. He was beyond scared, but he had the warm thoughts of Mr. Stark on his mind and he knew that this horrible man who had tried to take everything from him and completely ruin him, could never get his hands on his memories. 

He still had lab days and hot chocolate and pancakes and warm hugs whispered I love yous. And no matter how hard Quentin Beck tried to break him and snatch those memories and the warmth and the love away, he would never be able to do it. Tony had loved him like a son and it was going to be hard trying to get through this without him. He wouldn’t know who to turn to because he trusted no one like he trusted the deceased man.

But he wasn’t letting Quentin Beck ruin his life and steal the warm feeling of his memories with Mr. Stark. They weren’t his emotions and feelings and memories to steal and ruin and corrupt with no sense of consequence. No, they were Peter’s and he was holding them under lock and key.

He was confident that he could come back from this. He was basically Tony’s kid after all, and the man had definitely passed on his unwavering strength, determination and heart. He was going to be ok, he had to. 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know where this came from... Quentin Beck was just giving off really big creepy, horrible rapist vibes and it wouldn't leave me alone. Like he's such a creep. 
> 
> Anyways, take care of yourself please please please !! And leave a comment if you want cause they make me happy.


End file.
